


Reflection

by romanticalgirl



Category: Hornblower - C. S. Forester
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-08
Updated: 2013-04-08
Packaged: 2017-12-07 20:13:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/752589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticalgirl/pseuds/romanticalgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Heaven's own blue</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reflection

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [this amazing art](http://black-hound.livejournal.com/211410.html#cutid1) by [](http://black-hound.livejournal.com/profile)[**black_hound**](http://black-hound.livejournal.com/). Many thanks to [](http://inlovewithnight.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://inlovewithnight.livejournal.com/)**inlovewithnight** for beta duty.
> 
> Originally posted 6-25-07

The light through the window reflects differently on land than on sea. On the water, there is an additional brilliance, a quicksilver glow that ricochets off the water and the glass, making marks on the worn wooden floors like powder burns that never quite fade. He gets to his feet and moves to the window, land shifting beneath his foot, his stump in ways the sea never did. He stares out the window, speckled with soot and dust and salt and looks across the shipyard, quieted now that night is falling and the last vestiges of sun are burning away.

On the sea, sundown is a dazzling show of red and orange and gold that seems to last forever, only fading away when the dark swallows it, blue and black and the distant white of stars curling like steam away from the water. Here it all comes at once where there’s a moment of sunlight and the next is bitter with the smell of burning candles and burning oil, the lamplighters coming out of nowhere and disappearing into the night leaving nothing but inky black smoke in their wake.

He sighs and watches the movement of the water, what little he can see through the dense forest of parts and people, the stores and ships. He can hear the sounds of it, though he blocks out most of them, save the distant ringing of the bells that call out the watches. He closes his eyes, far more weary than he thinks he has a right to be, and listens as the last peal fades. Time moves differently on land and he can feel his life slipping away in days instead of hours, the years laying on his skin as the burnt darkness of the sun fades from his long hours in the offices, his only light filtered and false, much like his duty.

Making his way back to his desk, Bush finds his spectacles on the pile of papers – orders and requisition forms and minutiae that make his teeth clench and his jaw ache. Everyone wants something for nothing, demanding it all immediately if not sooner. Bush is not a man to rush. Haste has won him nothing. Proper preparation and planning, perfection in the little things wins battles and wars. He goes through the papers each day one by one, signing forms in his careful handwriting.

He stares down at his hands, scarred and rough, calloused and worn. He knows each scar like a wife, when and where and why, can catalogue his battles by the silvery lines in his skin. He can trace his commanders on his skin, the reckless and the wise, and those deep cuts now healed tell him more about haste and carelessness and unpreparedness. He has few scars from Hornblower, though the ones he does have, he earned in battle properly, from the enemy, giving as good as he got.

He walks to his seat, the hollowness of his step echoing through the small office. Of course, with Hornblower, he received the deepest cut of all.

He lights a candle to offset the growing darkness and stares at the papers. There is nothing that he cares to see this evening, nothing that will fill the night; however, the trip to the pub is longer than he wishes to make, and he still feels the stares the others try to hide. He can see other men thinking him a waste in the position, not a whole man, no matter why his leg was sacrifice. He can see others who stare openly, wonder clear in their eyes at how he can think himself a full man.

No drink is worth that, and going home to his empty room seems less appealing than reading through the requests and demands of captains who want everything now. He can feel the battle pulse in his blood as he reads the words, knows why everything is needed. He can smell powder in the harmless smoke of the candle and hear the echo of cannon fire. He closes his eyes tight, feels the wrinkles deepen in his skin, and knocks his glasses to the desk. His blood pounds beneath his skin, pulsing with the heat of battle and he struggles to control his breathing, regulate each breath to the coolness of a captain under fire.

He opens his eyes to darkness, and he’s unsure at how much time has passed. The candle sputters in the breeze that slips beneath the door to ruffle the papers. Wax spills over the sides and he’s uncertain if he’s slept or simply dreamed. He rubs his tired eyes with aching fingers and pushes away from his desk, standing unsteadily on the ground that refuses to move beneath his feet.

Snuffing the candle, he stands in the darkness, looking out the window and the distant stars. They’re filtered through dirty glass and look all the farther away for it, so he leaves the room, locking the door behind him and making his way down to the docks, inhaling the sea and the night, and wishing he could hear the sails, the whisper of bare or slippered feet and the haunting silence of nothing but the ocean around him.

Instead he turns and makes his slow way home in the darkness, hearing shouts and wagon wheels and horses as he goes farther inland for another restless night’s sleep. Daybreak is not far off now, and sunrise will find him back on the docks of Sheerness, watching the men, voices raised in shouts and laughter. He’ll squint against the purple and golden light and follow their movements before turning his back on them and making his way into his office.

He’ll stay there in the dim light unless a ship goes out, and then he’ll stand in front of his office and stare at the blank slate of ocean, seeing something more than the limited range of waves, seeing the past reflected in the same blue as his eyes.  



End file.
